Day 55: Cafeteria

[tightsofmight]

A night spent inside his room had done nothing to ease his jitters. Peter couldn't stop worrying. Over Brainy, what he thought of him now that he knew about what he'd done to Grell, and where he was going for the night. If he'd be safe. If Indy and the others would be safe, trucking on down to the basement. (Not frigging likely, considering 'basement' was synonymous for 'giant ass doom pit'.) If that ominous intercom announcement had meant anything. Peter had spent hours staring into the dark after that, his stomach churning his supper into butter over the horrific possibilities. Whatever punishment that arose for the food fight was a mystery. It didn't seem to infect him, unless it was a particularly trying case of insomnia. No matter how badly Peter tried, he couldn't find the will to sleep. Much of the night had been spent making notations and doodles in his journal by flashlight, peppered with long stretches of staring at the dark.

Honestly, he'd rather be taking another crack at the Hall of Hallucinations instead of rolling around in his bed. Paranoia was his only company the whole night.

Morning felt like a blessing by the time it came. He wasn't sure when sleep had finally overtaken him, but as he blinked his way into life he couldn't help feeling a bit...off.

It was really quiet. Peter's face scrunched under the light, and he stretched underneath the covers. There was a zip of cotton on cotton, and his shirt half dragged itself out from under the belt.

His eyes shot open. Belt? The covers flipped back, and Peter gaped down at his form on the bed. ...Belt?!

What the frigging hell was this? Peter jolted to his feet, patting himself down. He looked like some kind of air cadet. There were freaking epaulettes on his shoulders (was that even what they were called?), boots on his feet and a beret on the dresser. A single pin was nestled into the front, looking freshly polished as it glinted in the light. Peter snatched the hat up and stared. Two letters were inscribed on the pin. Nothing more, nothing less.

"SC..."

Special Counseling? Peter's expression took a turn for the frantic. What else could it stand for? He tried to run through a few candidates, but nothing stuck. Nothing applied so neatly without being ridiculous, because it clearly didn't stand for Super Cuckoo or Spider Cadet. Was he supposed to wear this like some stupid badge of honour? God, just brand it across his forehead, why don't you? My name is Peter Parker and I totally snapped a guy's arm for Mother Landel's. Hail the Smiley!

Peter pressed the beret against his face and groaned into the fabric. This was it. They weren't playing games anymore. They were finally turning this into death match boot camp and sending them off to war. Shit. Shit he was going to be in the frigging army in some messed up alternate universe, and he didn't even know what the frick they were fighting against or why they were fighting. If they were pulling magical whatsits out of every book and TV show known to man, then who knew what wacky threat they were up against. Aliens? If it was aliens, he was quitting. He was going to curl up on the ground hugging a grenade and pull the pin. Just no. No. This was not happening. This could not be frigging happening.

Except that it was. The person who whipped open the door that morning wasn't the affably sour Nurse Rachel, but a hulking, thickly built man who looked like he consumed a toddler a meal solely to fuel his pecs. Peter couldn't even find the breath to argue as he was told to tuck in his shirt and put on his boots and come to the cafeteria. He left just as another soldier brushed past them to collect Brainy, and Peter abruptly realized that in his confusion he'd forgotten to check if the boy was okay.

Too late for that now. Peter tried to match pace with the burly man, fumbling to put his snazzy new beret on and watching with wary eyes as other patients were dragged by. Things seemed even bleaker as they hit the cafeteria. The buffet was empty. The scent of food was lacking. Soldiers packed along the borders of the room so neatly you would think they were part of a particularly tacky wall paper. And worst of all? Buckets. Mops and rags and brooms, all piled in the center of the room.

The lady officer's speech was entirely unnecessary at that point. Peter withered where he stood as she told them their duty. It was like a scolding from Aunt May, if someone gave her a gun and a license to use it. Except the joke only made things worse - now he just wanted his Aunt. The force of his loneliness bowled him over like a wrecking ball. He might never see Aunt May again. Peter's gaze fell to the floor and he clenched his fists.

Was this it? Was his life really over? Escape never seemed so far away.

There was no protest from him as they were sent to work. Ashen and queasy, Peter stumbled towards the cleaning supplies and selected a bucket and a rag. He couldn't even bemoan his lack of breakfast. His nerves were making it impossible to even think about food.

They needed to get out tonight. Everyone. Somehow...

[Lion!]

Comments

[doneinthree]

Kirk woke up to the door of his room getting thrown open and a voice barking at the prisoners within, a rude change from the usual cheery nurse — or even the usual creepily cheery Head Doctor announcement. Huh. So Landel really was gone. Kirk received exactly two seconds to contemplate this before he was being ordered to get dressed and report to the cafeteria. Get dressed? As he sat up in bed, he realized that he was wearing something different from the familiar greys: starched black and blue, uncomfortable in that undeniably military way. Jim might technically be a soldier, but it had still taken him a month to get used to the stiff cadet uniform. Collars didn't suit him. Command golds, on the other hand...

A pair of black leather boots stood beside the bed, and Kirk pulled them on without being told twice. For all this new uniform lacked in comfort, he was willing to accept never having to wear cheap slippers again. Or that stupid yellow smiley, but — as he looked himself over again — that particular bit seemed to have escaped onto the black band already secured around his arm. Oh well.

Kirk started for the exit, but the soldier blocked his way, and pointed to an object on the dresser. "Your beret," she informed him.

"Seriously?" he asked. The soldier stared silently at Kirk, her flat expression saying enough. For a reckless second, he considered testing his new guard's stoicism with a playfully smart-aleck comment, but he expected that to go over about as well as flirting with Spock. Make that Spock with a firearm. Okay then. Kirk tugged the beret over his hair, and the soldier executed a crisp turn out of the room.

Unsurprisingly, he wasn't the only one with new duds. If he'd found the presence of soldiers jarring yesterday, it was nothing compared to seeing the mild hospital hallways crammed with military uniforms. Even more unexpected than that was the way his escort headed him off when he tried to detour to the bulletin board, citing some new regulation about bulletin privileges. Kirk's misgivings only grew when he caught the smell coming from the cafeteria — or, more accurately, the lack of smell. No fried food, broiled meat, or sweet cakes. Nothing but a mountain of cleaning supplies in the center of the room. Another soldier stepped out of the lineup of black, and the reason for it became clear enough.

As everyone feared, the regime change had brought harsher wardens. This, Kirk could handle — god knew he'd endured these kinds of punishments before, if not in Starfleet Academy before he'd figured out his attitude needed an adjustment, then back on the farmhouse with his stepfather. Honestly, it was less confusing to actually be treated like prisoners for once... but as much as this made more sense, Kirk didn't expect Aguilar's strictness to end with mops and soap buckets.

He spotted Spock in the crowd ahead, and quickly made his way over after procuring a scrubber and bucket himself. Mopping and sweeping would allow him more dignity, but Kirk couldn't be too pressed to care about appearances right now. He knew what they were trying to do by forcing the "insubordinate" prisoners to stand and watch, but it would be hypocrisy for him to resent them for wanting to take a swing at the staff.

Kirk knew who the real enemy was, and it wasn't the people trapped here with him.

"You know, the new uniform suits you way better. You wearing that happy face kind of creeped me out." He plunked his bucket on the floor and kneeled down beside Spock. So much for their spotless, perfectly creased pants. "So what do you make of all this?"

[dual-worlds.livejournal.com]

When Kirk reached him and gave his typical sort of greeting, Spock briefly raised an eyebrow at him. This was hardly the time to be making remarks about how the Institute's symbol looked on him, but he couldn't exactly say he was surprised, either. As he glanced at him, however, Spock remained alert for any changes in the captain's behavior. Kirk's reactions last night had been rather disconcerting, though there was a chance that there were no longer any lingering ill effects. Still, it would be difficult to know for certain without watching him a little longer.

"I suspect we shall be wearing these uniforms for a long while, perhaps even until we manage to escape," he responded, voice quiet so as to attract as little attention as possible. "Obviously, this project has received a large amount of funding from an outside source, and it is clear that Landel's superiors are unhappy with how he has been using their resources."

That would only make sense, of course. In elaborate projects such as these, the benefits needed to outweigh the costs in order to justify the effort being expended. Otherwise, the only logical options were to either cease the endeavor entirely, or make significant changes in how it was managed.

"With so little information concerning the sociopolitical climate of this world, however, I cannot say whether Martin Landel is alive, or if he has simply been removed from his position for an indefinite length of time," Spock continued, pausing to dip his brush into the bucket of water again. As he did so, he glanced down at the set of metal tags hanging against his breast, taking note of the information. Aidan Penn, C Rank, 17927600M. Interesting...

"Even so," he added once he brought the brush back down onto the floor, "our new captor's actions may be somewhat easier to predict, given our own military background."

Quiet honestly, he would have been surprised if yesterday's sedation needles and solitary cells had been the end of the discipline concerning the "food fight". They needed to assert their dominance in order to make it clear that they wouldn't tolerate such behavior in the future. If they were fortunate, this would be the last of it, but that didn't mean they were safe from further changes. If anything, Spock expected further surprises as they continued through the coming days.

[doneinthree]

Kirk grinned at Spock's raised eyebrow, but focused on work as well. While the first officer gave his assessment, he rolled up his sleeves and grabbed the scrub brush out of his bucket. At least this kind of mindless busywork made it easy to conduct a conversation. "Executing Landel? Do you think they're that ruthless?" Probably a weird question to ask, considering these people had kidnapped hundreds from their home worlds and subjected them to potentially fatal trials every night, but there had always been... something... about the staff here. Even Martin Landel, in his own twisted way, had had his moments of seeming as if he actually cared about them.

Oh god, was he developing Stockholm Syndrome already? Almost two weeks of an indulgent hospital facade, and all it took was a change in the guard for him to lose his focus. Kirk rolled his eyes at himself, but then remembered something else. "They might not like what he's done with this... project, but I think he's more valuable than just as the head of the Institute. You remember that conversation on the intercom yesterday, when he said they would've been 'blown back to the Stone Age' without his help?" His brush paused, and he absently reached up to undo a few buttons at his collar. Better. "Landel said something like that again when I saw him in the Sun Room. It was—"

"Hey!" If not for the pair of black boots stepping into his vision, Kirk might've assumed that was directed at someone else. He glanced up, ready to offer a sarcastic apology for his three-second lapse in scrubbing, and saw the soldier pointing at his shirt. "That stays buttoned up."

"Oh, come on..." Kirk began, but stopped himself when the soldier's eyes narrowed. He'd dealt with authority enough times to tell when this was as lenient as they were going to be about something. On the other hand... what was the worst they would do to him? The prisoners were valuable, too if these people were investing so much into whatever the hell this was. There were a lot of ways he could justify this — maybe he wanted to test the limits of the soldiers' discipline, maybe it would actually get them somewhere for once if he forced them to take notice of him — but honestly? Kirk just didn't take well to being ordered around.

He wanted to. Hell, he was already getting punished — they were all getting punished, if not with this, than with being thrown to nightmare creatures every night, no matter how they behaved. Why did any of them bother to play along? But... Kirk could feel Spock watching him, reminding him of that one time he'd been forced off the bridge. That moment where he just didn't give a damn about anything anymore; where all he'd wanted was to fight something, even if all he accomplished was screwing over himself. Only this time, Spock wasn't the unfeeling bastard opposing him, but his second-in-command.

If Kirk started something now, he wouldn't be the only one getting involved.

Silently, he buttoned up his shirt again, but his self-control only went so far. "Do I need to fix this too?" Kirk asked, gesturing to his rolled-up sleeves. "Because I'd hate it if my fancy new—"

"Get back to work," the soldier interrupted without even batting an eyelash, and walked off before Kirk could even think about trying to get the last word in. He glared after the man, feeling all at once furious and idiotic and helpless, then suddenly grabbed his brush again and started scrubbing with enough force to wear down the tile.

It was a moment before he spoke again. "'Do you even know what would've happened to this altverse without me?'" Kirk kept his eyes focused on the task. "Pretty sure Landel used the word 'altverse'."

[dual-worlds.livejournal.com]

While Kirk raised a valid point about Landel's potential importance, they had no way of knowing whether he had outlived his usefulness to the military or not. At this point any discussion on the matter was pure speculation, which did them little good now. The main issue, as far as Spock was concerned, was assessing how they could continue pursuing the three objectives outlined by Kirk despite the change in regime. If they were fortunate, the relative freedom of nightshift would remain the same as before. Unfortunately, however, they couldn't be certain until the day ended.

Before he could say as much, a soldier interrupted their work and ordered Kirk to adjust his uniform. Although he continued working, Spock's gaze slid over to his captain, mouth faintly pressing into a thin as if to silently convey his suggestion that Kirk comply. There was a tense moment when he wondered if the human would defer to their captors despite how little he had to gain from opposing them on such a minor issue. If Kirk caused a commotion now, it wouldn't bode well for them or the other patients in the facility.

Apparently, Kirk came to the same realization. He did indeed button his shirt, albeit along with an unnecessary comment that didn't surprise Spock in the slightest. The soldier didn't see any need to continue the exchange, though, and after a moment of silence the captain resumed their previous conversation. Despite the attempt to appear as though the brief confrontation hadn't bothered him, Spock knew that display had taken a fair amount of self control on Kirk's part.

"Many people kept here have different recollections regarding Earth's history," Spock pointed out. "One possible explanation is that Landel's is capable of pulling individuals from any time, place, or reality. My conversation with the resistance member also seemed to support this theory."

The Vulcan continued scrubbing the floor, though he turned to glance at Kirk. "Landel's comments further suggest that we are, indeed, currently on an alternate version of Earth."

[doneinthree]

Not for the first time, Kirk found himself surprised by how glad he was of Spock's company. Not that he still expected otherwise — any doubts he might've had about them making a good team disappeared before they'd arrived in Landel's, and all the time since then had cemented it — but as much as Jim found it easy to mingle, or bond with his crew members, he wasn't close to a lot of people. Bones was probably the one person he wouldn't mind having by his side in any given situation, but in this particular one, the doctor would've made him talk about feelings. Sure, sometimes he was grateful for Bones' dogged persistence in psychoanalyzing him, but right now it was listening to Spock's measured voice which helped Kirk calm down.

He'd never expected to want someone like Spock by his side, but now that he had him, Kirk was glad for it. And it was a little surprising too to realize that, with Chekov gone and days with no hint of what had happened to him, he and Spock really were the ones who'd been in this the longest. Thirteen days... close to two weeks... half a month. Of course Kirk had kept track of how long it'd been. The moment he stopped, and then what? Might as well admit he'd given up on seeing home again.

And whether "home" meant Iowa or Starfleet, it wasn't this universe. "If this is Earth — or some version of Earth — then what happened here?" Kirk wrung out his sponge, frowning slightly as he turned the idea over in his head. "Something did, something catastrophic. And Martin Landel claims to be responsible for fixing it... or stopping it from becoming worse... and he was in charge of this 'project' until recently. The two things have to be related."

But how? There were too many missing pieces to this puzzle, too much information he didn't know, but he was onto something, he could feel it.

"What could've happened to make this place necessary?" Kirk returned to cleaning but moved through it mechanically, not bothering to scrub somewhere new. The damn cafeteria was already clean anyway... "It's not just the kidnapping and brainwashing. They needed to look in other times, places, realities, like you said... and for what?"